


The Mummy Direst Affair

by laughingacademy



Category: Indiana Jones (1981 1984 1989 2008), Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingacademy/pseuds/laughingacademy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While chasing after tomb robbers, U.N.C.L.E. agents Solo and Kuryakin cross paths with a whip-wielding college professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mummy Direst Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cynaravurzyn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cynaravurzyn).



# Act One: "The Mummy's Curse"

  
_Cha-click!_

"This, gentlemen, is Mr. Reginald Ramsey, of Los Angeles, California. He is the founder of HIKE" — Waverly pronounced it _hee-kay_ — "the Hermetic Institute for Knowledge and Enlightenment, a society 'devoted to the study of metaphysics and the untapped potential of the human mind,' to quote its literature. Outsiders, however, describe it as a 'crackpot cult,' pointing to the fact that Ramsey has stated for the record that he believes himself to be the reincarnation of the pharaoh Rameses II."

"Rameses, huh?" said Napoleon, head cocked as he scrutinized the face being projected on the briefing room's screen.

Illya snorted. "Funny, isn't it, how those who say they can remember their past lives always claim to have been someone important. Reincarnation appears to be yet another privilege denied to the proletariat."

"Personally, I don't think he looks anything like Yul Brenner. He sounds like a target for the LA bunco squad. What put His Highness on our radar?"

"A recent attack against an archaeological dig in Egypt, led by Dr. Joseph Brody of Barnett College. The raiders killed Dr. Brody and a native, and stripped the site bare. They even chiseled panels from the walls. Fortunately, the team had photographed the tomb and its contents before the attack. When some of the smaller artifacts appeared on the black market, the authorities managed to trace them back to the gang. The survivors claim to have been hired by a THRUSH agent. A search of his house yielded documents indicating that most of the stolen artifacts, including a mummy and its sarcophagus, had been shipped to Ramsey."

"What would THRUSH want with a mummy?"

"I was hoping you and Mr. Kuryakin could determine that, and take possession of the stolen goods so that they may be returned to Egypt. The artifacts are in three crates on a ship scheduled to dock at pier ninety-two tomorrow at four o'clock. Ramsey has hired an armored car to transport them to Grand Central."

"Not an airport?"

"According to his file, Ramsey distrusts aircraft," Illya said.

"Which is fortunate for us," said Waverly. "Far easier to perform a discreet extraction from a truck or a train than an plane."

"It might have been even easier on a boat."

"Perhaps, Mr. Solo, but we learned of this affair too late to pursue that option. I'll leave the details of the operation to you."

As they were walking back to their office, Illya looked at Napoleon quizzically and asked, "Yul Brenner?"

"Bald, played Rameses in Cecil B. DeMille's _The Ten Commandments_. You've never seen it?"

"I know who Yul Brenner is; he's from Vladivostock, and I don't think he's old enough to have been in a silent movie."

"There was a silent version? He's Russian?"  


***

  


# Act Two: The Twentieth-Century 

  
_Ta-clicka ta-clack, ta-clicka ta-clack…_

"'Poleon…" moaned Illya.

Napoleon was sprawled across the lower bunk with his arms bound, leaving him unable to touch Illya, who was red-lipped and sleepy-eyed as he straddled his lap and ground against Napoleon with just enough pressure to keep him hard while swaying languorously in time with the noise of the train, _ta-clicka ta-clack_ forward, _ta-clicka ta-clack_ back…

"Napoleon? Wake up. It's dinner time and I'm hungry."

Solo blinked up at Kuryakin, who was wearing a black turtleneck, a black sports jacket and matching slacks, his glasses, and an amused expression. The last was explained when Napoleon tried to sit up and discovered that he'd managed to tangle his gray jacket in his sleep, trapping his arms at his sides. After a few seconds' futile struggle he slumped back and let his partner undo the jacket's buttons. "Thanks."

"Anything else I can help you with?" Illya asked.

"I thought you said…you were hungry," Napoleon gasped as Illya's hand reached for his fly.

"Oh, I am. How fortunate that there's an appetizer to hand…"

"Do I get an appetizer?" Napoleon asked afterward.

"I thought you might prefer an extra helping of dessert," Illya said, wiping his mouth.

Napoleon grinned. "You're such a good partner."

"Thank you. Come on, the porter said tonight's entrée is prime rib."  


*

  
The Twentieth-Century Limited might have been past its heyday, but the service was still first-rate. Illya, unusually, was not giving his full attention to an excellent dinner. Napoleon noticed. "What is it?"

Illya took a sip of water and murmured, "See the man at the table opposite?"

"Hard to miss." The gray hair and tweedy outfit of the gentleman in question were at odds with his eye patch and the way he moved, both of which hinted at a more than casual acquaintance with violence. Napoleon found it oddly difficult to guess his age, finally settling on a tentative estimate of fifty-five. "He was at the docks, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He boarded the train shortly after we did."

"Hmm. I don't recall ever spotting his face in the rogue's gallery. Extra security for the crates?"

"Possibly. Or a thief sent by another satrapy; THRUSH infighting has been on the rise recently. What troubles me is that he seems familiar, even though he's not in our books."

The agents dallied over their food, keeping pace with the mystery man as he dined. When he donned a rather natty hat and left his table, Illya waited a few moments and followed him, then rejoined Napoleon in the dining car, where the steward was pouring coffee.

"His name, according to the passenger list, is Jones, and he's two doors further from the luggage car than us. If he leaves his compartment and heads that way, we'll hear him. Do you want to adjust our timetable?"

Napoleon thought it over. "Unless he tries something, we should stick to the plan and wait till the train is in a sparsely populated area and the guards in the luggage room are tired and bored."

"All right. It's nine o'clock; that gives us five hours to fill. What shall we do?"

"Ah, I seem to recall you promised me dessert."  


***

  


# Act Three: The Good Doctor

  
_Click._

"Any problems?" asked Napoleon as the door slid open.

"None," said Illya, pulling off his miniaturized breathing mask as Napoleon stepped into the luggage car. "The gas knocked them out immediately."

The train lurched and sent Solo stumbling. "Good thing you got in before we hit this stretch of track."

"It would have been difficult to keep my footing on the roof through these jolts, ye— Napoleon? Weren't there four guards? There are three here."

As Napoleon hastily counted the prone figures in bad suits, there was a _crack!_ and a yelp from the corridor. Napoleon opened the door to reveal a THRUSH thug sporting a fresh weal on one cheek grappling with the one-eyed man, who was now wearing a battered leather jacket. Both agents drew their Specials, but before either could shoot the man knocked out the guard with a haymaker.

"Nice punch," said Napoleon.

The man turned and found himself looking down the barrel of Napoleon's gun. "Damn."

"Please, come on in."

With a disgusted sigh, the man entered the luggage car, only to stop short as he caught sight of the trio slumped around Ramsey's crates. "I really hope you're the good guys," he said, as Illya swiftly relieved him of a wallet, a multi-function knife, a pistol, and…

"A _bullwhip_?" said Napoleon incredulously. "What are you, a lion tamer?"

"Archaeologist," his prisoner replied.

"Dr. Henry Jones, Professor, of the Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations Department at Barnett College, New York, according to his cards," Illya chimed in. "That's the school which sponsored the dig."

"I was going to lead the expedition, but, well, something came up," said Jones, gesturing toward his eye patch. "So poor Brody went instead."

"Friend of yours?" Napoleon asked gently.

"The son of an old friend. I owed it to Marcus to find out who was responsible for Joe's death."

Napoleon and Illya, in a quick, wordless exchange, established that they were both inclined to trust the man, and holstered their weapons. "Dr. Jones, we know who's behind it, and we're going to do our best to bring him to justice."

"Who was it? How do you know? Who are you?"

"As it happens, we are the good guys. My name's Solo, my partner is Kuryakin, and we're agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

Jones peered at Solo's identification card. "U.N.C.L.E.? I've heard of it. You do good work."

"Thank you, Doctor. Speaking of which, I'd better report in. How are you doing with the guards, Illya?"

"All bound and gagged." As Napoleon tried to get a clear signal, Illya approached Jones. "Sir, you may be able to clear up something that has puzzled us: the reason for this crime. Does THRUSH mean anything to you?"

Jones frowned as he re-coiled his whip and placed it in its holder. "Well, there's the bird and the fungus, but I'm guessing neither is what you're looking for."

"In this case, it's an organization whose members are devoted to the acquisition of power by any means available."

"Swell."

Napoleon put a hand over his communicator's pick-up to ask, "How about the name Reginald Ramsey?"

"He's the addressee for these boxes, but I don't know if he's behind the raid or just someone willing to buy relics without provenance. Though if he's connected to this THRUSH…"

"Hike?"

That earned Napoleon a double take. "The mummy was a priest of Hike — in plain words, a doctor. Hike had no formal worship, but was a sort of patron saint of medicine and magic that healers called upon when they were dealing with difficult cases."

"Interesting. The walls of tombs were often decorated with records of their inhabitants' lives, and the deceased's organs preserved in canopic jars, is that not so, Dr. Jones? And all of that material was stolen, which means that THRUSH wants to examine the remains, effects, and life story of a doctor from antiquity…" mused Illya.

"If what you've told me about these people is true, I know what they want," Jones said grimly. "Did you hear about the deaths?"

"Brody and the local man?"

"No, the others. Sixteen of the native workers and four of the bandits have gotten sick and died."

"Sir, did you hear that?" Napoleon said into his pen. "Yes, I'll ask him…Dr. Jones, how did those men die?"

"Some respiratory problem the doctors had never seen before. Most of them were found in their beds, like they'd smothered. The ones who lived long enough to be hospitalized died despite everything."

"And they were all people who had direct contact with the tomb or the things that were inside?" Jones nodded. "Anyone else get sick?"

"Not that I've heard."

Napoleon sighed. "I guess it isn't too contagious."

"That will change if THRUSH can isolate the cause and weaponize it," said Illya.

Jones cleared his throat. "Shouldn't we do something about getting this stuff off the train before this Ramsey can?"

"Done," said Napoleon, putting away his communicator. "Our boss is arranging for the Limited to wait at Hammond, Indiana, until a team of agents with a truck can meet us."

Looking at his watch, Illya noted, "We are scheduled to arrive at Hammond at seven-thirty. That's more than four hours from now."

Jones broke the pause that followed by saying, "I have cards and scotch in my room."  


*

  
Once the THRUSH men were ensconced in the agents' compartment — one thug tied to each bunk, a third bundled into the tiny bathroom, the fourth left trussed on the floor — Illya and Napoleon rejoined Dr. Jones in the luggage car for several rounds of auction pinochle. As the level of the bottle dropped, the archaeologist and the U.N.C.L.E. men compared notes on the far-flung locales they'd passed through. Napoleon and Jones agreed that Hong Kong tailors gave the best value for the money but differed over where one found the most beautiful women. Then Jones and Illya tried to teach Napoleon Preference, an attempt that ended when they realized that Jones was playing the Leningrad version and Illya the Moscow variety.

Around four, Napoleon, a little giddy from the scotch, asked, "Why are they called mummies, anyway?"

"It's probably derived from _mûmiyâ,_ Arabic for 'embalmed body,'" said Illya.

"Which in turn comes from _mum,_ their word for bitumen or mineral pitch," Jones added.

"Right, thanks, that'll do," Napoleon said hastily. "Think I'll take a nap."

Illya nodded, "I'll wake you in ninety minutes."

As Napoleon dozed off, he could hear his partner and the professor discussing the merits of the Twentieth-Century Limited, the Flying Scotsman, the Orient Express, and the Trans-Siberian Express.

"Napoleon."

"I'm up," Napoleon said, suiting action to word. "How long till the rendezvous?"

"Another two hours, assuming the train is on time."

"Catch some shut-eye."

Illya let his head droop and within seconds was dead to the world. Napoleon permitted himself a small, fond smile at the sight, then sat opposite Dr. Jones, who had laid out a game of solitaire. "You all right?"

"Fine. You don't need much sleep at my age."

"If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

"I'll be sixty-eight in July."

"The hell you say!"

Illya sat up.

"Whoops, sorry. Go back to sleep."

Grumbling, Illya slouched and stilled.

"You've got a hell of a partner there," Jones commented, squaring the deck.

"I like to think so," Napoleon said cautiously. "How about you? Got anyone?"

"I'm married" — Napoleon nodded; he'd noticed the ring — "and I've had a lot of good friends over the years, some even more unlikely than your Russian. The Brodys were two of them. You will take down this S.O.B. Ramsey and his pals." It wasn't a question.

Jones, thought Napoleon, had a hell of a stare on him for a one-eyed man. "My word on it. So, what are your plans once all this is over?"

"I'm going meet my daughter." Jones blinked at the bottle, which had a bare inch left at the bottom. "Wow, I must have drunk more than I thought. Can't believe I just said that."

"Meet your daughter? Do you mean, for the first time?"

"Well…it's complicated. You don't mind if I bend your ear with this? My wife and I have a daughter. But years ago there was a woman, Marion, who I was very close to for a long time. However, she was settled in New York, owned a club called the Raven's Nest, while I was chasing all over the world, so it was an on-again, off-again affair. Finally, she told me she really wanted a family, so we had one last fling and then she married a doctor. Nine months later she gave birth to a girl. I saw her a couple of times, pretty little thing, but after Marion died I lost track of her husband and the kid. Then, a couple years ago, the doctor was murdered during a visit to Yugoslavia, and Marion — she was named after her mother — inherited his things, including her mother's diaries. She read them, did some figuring, and then set out to track me down." Jones chuckled. "Smart and stubborn, just like her mother."

"And you came into the city to meet her," Napoleon said, carefully maintaining an expression of polite interest.

"Yep. Then I heard from some friends about the attack. Phone calls to old contacts, some judicious bribery, and demonstration with the whip got me the artifacts' destination, though not the who or why or the theft…and that's how I wound up dining across the aisle from you."

"You caught us looking huh?"

"You were very discreet, but I've had years of practice playing hide and seek. Also, I remembered Mr. Kuryakin from the pier. The hair is fairly noticeable."

"Yeah, we've been told that."  


***

  


# Act Four: Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out

  
_Crack!_

The transfer of the stolen artifacts from the train had gone smoothly right up to the point when it went to Hell.

"Where are these guys coming from?" griped Solo, sliding another clip into his Special as a third truckload of jump-suited THRUSH goons pulled into the station. The U.N.C.L.E. team that should have been unloading the crates were busy defending the one they'd put in their truck before the flock of enemies appeared.

"THRUSH must have had squads standing by in every town along the route," Illya yelled from his post at the large cargo door as he kicked a would-be intruder in the face.

"Solo!"

Napoleon turned at the professor's shout and was slammed against a wall by two of the guards he'd left tied up in his room. The others were closing in on Illya, while a pair of the reinforcements began manhandling a crate toward the cargo door.

"This is taking too long," boomed a deep voice, and an oddly dressed figure hauled itself into the luggage car. "Leave the body and find the boxes with the jars!"

Napoleon managed to slide downward, elbowed one of his attackers in the belly, then kicked the other in the knee and heard a satisfying crack. Illya had dispatched one opponent and was punching the other in the jaw. However, while they'd been busy the two jump-suited THRUSH and the newcomer, who was wearing some kind of two-toned tall hat, had pried open one create, revealing several sealed metal boxes of various sizes. High Hat grabbed one of the larger ones and made for the open door —

_Hiss-SCHWACK!_

— only to land on his face when Jones's whip coiled around one calf and went taut. The box tumbled outside and landed with an ominous thud.

"You! Get off me! How dare you!" shrieked the fallen man over the rising wail of sirens.

"Napoleon, the THRUSH are flying away."

"Let them," Solo said, kneeling to tug the white and red headpiece off Jones's prisoner. "If I'm not mistaken, we've got the leader of the flock here. How nice of you to come all the way from California, Mr. Ramsey."

"He's wearing a hemhem," Jones said in puzzled tones as Illya cuffed the writhing Ramsey's hands behind his back. "The triple crown of the pharaohs."

"Ramsey was Rameses II in a past life," Napoleon explained.

Jones rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Oh Christ. I'm getting too old for this."  


*

  
Two days later, Illya, Napoleon, and their new friend strolled beneath the figures of Orion and Pegasus set into the ceiling of Grand Central's main concourse.

"Are you sure we can't offer you a lift, Doctor?" asked Solo as Jones, who'd reverted to his professorial persona, set his suitcase down near the information booth in the center of the vast space.

"Oh, didn't I say? I called my daughter to explain why I couldn't make our rendezvous — well, I gave her the edited version — and she insisted on picking me up from the station. In fact…I think that's her!"

Illya looked where the professor was pointing, blanched, and gave Solo a panicked look as the _tock tock_ of an approaching pair of high heels got faster and sharper.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin! What are you doing with my father?"

"Er…hello, Marion. Lovely to see you again."  


*

  
"That was incredibly awkward," Illya said hours later in Napoleon's penthouse apartment.

"It wasn't that bad. I've had to face shotgun-toting fathers. Dr. Jones said you could call him Indiana." Napoleon smirked. "What kind of name is 'Indiana'?"

"I'm sorry, did you say something, _Napoleon_? And why the hell didn't you warn me?"

"In all the excitement, I forgot! Anyway, all's well that ends well. Our new friend saw his friend avenged and met his long-lost daughter; the labs have confirmed that any pathogens that were left in the mummy's lungs died once the preserving fluid leaked from the cracked jar into the box's padding; and Ramsey is in a cell…crying for his mummy."

Napoleon managed to dodge the first pillow, but not the second.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for "The Down the Chimney Affair 2," a Secret Santa fic exchange, in 2005. It is set in 1967, a couple of years after the _Man from U.N.C.L.E._ episodes "The Quadripartite Affair" and "The Giuoco Piano Affair." Certain aspects have been rendered AU by _Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_.


End file.
